The Burning Ship

I know where my characters are headed. The big turn at the end of what in a movie would be the second act is all but written. But cooking up the emotional head of steam I need to make that turn explosive is going to take many thousands of extremely carefully chosen words and so far, with Part II of the book wide open before me, not one has been written. Meanwhile, I'm almost done writing the first draft of my episode for the show, so I've given myself the weekend to work on a way into Part II, with no other obligations and the wife still in New York and the house blacked out to keep the trick-or-treaters away. Am I getting somewhere? Am I any f%&king good at this at all?

To that last question, something like an answer came in a poem called The Burning Ship in this month's Atlantic. it's by Campbell MGrath, and it goes like this:

No room for regret or self-doubt in art,
doubt but not self-doubt. The ship hauls anchor,
the kerosene lantern flickers and goes out,
voices in the pitch black swell with anger

as shipmates mistake each other for enemies.
The lantern spills, the pilot drops a lit cigar.
Tragedy ensues and engenders more tragedy.
If only the moon could see, if only the stars

had been granted the power of speech.
But the blind remain blind, the voiceless mute.
The burning ship threads its way between reefs
in the darkness. Doubt, but not self-doubt.